Sherlock was having a spectacular day today. First, Lestrade had called him in on a case and now he had secured a flat that would hopefully be far enough out of the way that Mycroft wouldn't come and bother him. One could hope.

Gods, Mycroft, he thought, his mind wandering as he hailed a taxi to Barts.

Sherlock remembered hating Uther quite clearly, even now thinking of the man caused something inside him to flare up with burning resentment. He was short-sighted, prejudiced and stuck in his ways even though any reasonable person could see how flawed his logic was.

But Mycroft... Well, he had protected Sherlock as children, he supposed, to the best of his ability anyway. When his parents found him excitable and too much to handle it was Mycroft that had praised his intelligence and took him to a nearby park to play pirates. Mycroft was even the reason he became a consulting detective, a fact that Mycroft was aware of, but thankfully had never brought up in all of their many disputes. Mycroft and Sherlock had spent hours as children playing deductions, an outlet that Sherlock had desperately needed to prevent him from succumbing to mind numbing boredom.

Mycroft would come home during his breaks from public school and almost immediately would jump into the game. "Tell me Sherlock, what can we deduce about Nanny?" It was almost his way of saying I missed you, but of course the words were never uttered aloud. Sentiment.

Unlike Mycroft, Sherlock didn't remember a single thing about his past lives until he was well into his teen years and away at Eton. Making an already miserable experience for him even more intolerable. His peers seemed to have a particular aversion to Sherlock (not that he quite minded, they were all idiots after all) but when the visions had started he almost allowed himself to believe that everything people had ever said about him was true.

"Nutter"

"Sociopath."

"Has a bit of screw loose, tha' one. If ya know what I mean."

To call them "dreams" would be an understatement, perhaps "visions" would be a more suitable word. Sometimes they appeared as dreams so much in the fact that he was sleeping, but more often than not they would occur in the middle of the day while Sherlock was wide awake.

Perhaps his transport could no longer support his overwhelming genius and he had finally cracked? The very idea terrified him, his brain was the only thing he could depend on. If he could no longer trust his brain to function properly that would mean he would become as ordinary and boring as every other person he had ever met. Worse still, unlike them, he would still remember being extraordinary. He would always be reaching and never again be able to grasp. He couldn't tell his secret to Mummy or Mycroft for fear of being locked away somewhere. No, he had to be alone in this.

The first time he was in the middle of chemistry, his teacher asking the class to produce a basic Glycine-nitrate reaction (elementary.) when he got a sudden and terrible headache. His fists clenched in, against the sharp pain and he closed his eyes as he was forcibly brought to his knees by the onslaught. He felt as if he was drowning.

No, that wasn't right. He felt as if all the air had left his lungs at once but none would enter back in.

**** "C'mon then, run" said a light haired man. "It's supposed to be moving target practice"

And a throwing knife soared through the air, landing on a round wooden table that another man was carrying followed by another and another.

"Hey. C'mon that's enough." he found himself saying.

"What?" said the light haired man.

"You've had your fun, my friend," he heard himself say.

"Do I know you?" the man replied and Sherlock could tell that this man was someone quite important by how well his armor was polished.

"Uh, I'm Merlin" he said and held out his hand. Merlin? Who was Merlin and why was he telling someone that was his name?

"So, I don't know you?" said the man. "No." he found himself replying.

"Yet you called me friend?" "That was my mistake." Sherlock was very glad that he seemed to be in control of his higher brain functions at least.

"Yes, I think so." "Yeah, I'd never have a friend who could be such an ass."

The man laughed "Or I one who could be so stupid. Tell me Merlin, Do you know how to walk on your knees?"

"No." his lips moved of their own accord.

"Would you like me to help you?"

"I wouldn't if I were you," he found himself amused by the man, even though in his mind Sherlock knew he was about to be in serious trouble. It was as if the emotions he was feeling were being inflicted on him by an unknown entity.

"Why? What are you going to do to me?" the man replied and Sherlock detected a bit of an innuendo there, although whoever this "Merlin" person was, he didn't seem to realize at all.

"You have no idea" or maybe he did? It was hard to tell at this point. Sherlock was feeling things that didn't seem to make sense with what he was seeing. There was rage, sure, but there was also some sort of intrigue and Sherlock could feel fondness for some reason that didn't seem to make sense. Was it his fondness or this Merlin person he had taken on the role of?

"Be my guest! c'mon! c'mon" and Sherlock found himself swinging at the man in the armor.

"I could put you in jail for that." blondie said after ducking the punch.

"Who do you think you are? THE KING?" shutupidiot, shutupidiot CANT YOU SEE HIS ARMOUR?

"No, I'm his son. Arthur."

ARTHUR?

When Sherlock became aware of his surroundings again, he was on the floor of the chemistry lab clutching his head while the other students stared at him.

"Hey Freak! Whose Arthur? Your boyfriend?" He heard someone yell followed by the twitter of laughter.

Who was Arthur? Sherlock certainly didn't know, but he did know that he felt his insides clench at the name.